


The end of Stanley Uris

by Mellooh



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: IT Chapter Two Spoilers, Self-Harm, depressed thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-05
Updated: 2019-12-05
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:48:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21678523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mellooh/pseuds/Mellooh
Summary: Stanley Uris is not the same person, coming out of Neibolt. Perhaps, he was not supposed to be.A short story of Stan, his pain, his burdens, and his demise.
Kudos: 12





	The end of Stanley Uris

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this piece to deal with some of my own emotions and thoughts, it's more difficult to do so in English, but I tried to make it work.  
> I also decided to drop it here to remind myself of good times, bad times, and the something in between.
> 
> Remember that you are valid, you are worthy, and you deserve to be here <3

_ Thump. _

  
  


_ Thump. _

  
  


_ Thump. _

  
  


The sound of drops falling to the tiles of an old bathroom floor seemed to be the only sound in the room. A steady rhythm, much akin to the frantic beating of a young man’s heart. 

Stanley had not expected himself to be in this situation today. Had not expected to taint his skin a violent shade of red, to pierce the intricate layers with the sharpest knife he could buy away from the store without arousing suspicion.

It was not the first time that Stan had succumbed to this desire to hurt himself; most likely it would not be the last time either. His thighs were littered with carefully placed markings of his own feelings, small enough to hide when keeping his legs close together during the summer months. Each pinkish stripe he remembered carving, and the emotions that came with them. They never quite managed to leave.

  
After each cut, the high would come to him. He would feel  _ good _ again, as if Yahweh had blessed him with a purpose again. For some minutes, he would be blissfully unaware of the horrors that he had faced in his short life on this earth. In those moments, he was free.

But then the dopamine would slowly start to wear out, his heart rate would calm down again, and reality would slam back into him like the baseball bat that had hit the Clown. Stan’s face tingled, in those moments, right where his face was once gnawed open by the teeth of a lady that should not have existed. 

By the time his high wore out enough to move once more, a small pool of blood had collected itself onto the white tiles of the bathroom floor. He was not worried, a quick clean and nobody would even notice there had been anything out of the norm happening in here. His parents were, as ever, none the wiser of what he did, just as he wanted them to be.

  
  


This behaviour started a few years prior, after that Summer in which his faith was tainted, his friends damaged, and the Losers were nearly annihilated by a creature of Darkness. To say that it had ruined Stan was an understatement. All that he had ever known, believed in, lived for - had felt as a lie. 

How could he believe in the Torah, in Yahweh itself, when confronted with an alien that tried to devour him and his friends - for sport? For the mere chance to hunt and feast on the fear of mortal children. Their dying breaths wasted away down in a sewer, where none would find them ever again. A long time ago, Stan worried he too would be one of these unspoken children. The day that Bill asked them to go into the Neibolt house with him, was the day Stan’s life changed for the worse. Gone were the times where he could be true to himself, his faith, his family. All was a lie, woven intricately into a pattern he would not unravel for a long time to come. One he yearned to understand just a  _ bit _ better.

Another cut.

Another pool of blood.

A high-pitched laugh rang through his ears. The screams of children he had never heard of in his life came right after. They were not supposed to be dead. Georgie, and the others, belonged to them, to the living. It had not been their time, and still.. Still Yahweh allowed horrors like this to exist, to happen right under their noses. Had he not prayed enough? Were his rituals not good enough? Was his faith not strong enough?

Did he need to give  _ more  _ than his own flesh and blood, in order to please the god he was not quite sure he could still believe in?

Downstairs, a door slammed shut, and the voice of his mother called out for him. His response came on auto-pilot, yelling affirmative notions that he did not register properly. Hands busied themselves with his wounds, dressing them quickly and with an expertise no boy his age should have. Scrubbing the floor was easy, covered by the running of warm water from the shower. An excuse, as always, as to not arouse suspicion. 

Some days, Stan wished he could speak to his friends about the events of the past. Others, he wished he could simply fly off with the birds he so admired in the Quarry. And on the more rare days, his cutting days, he wished that the Losers had left him behind. 

  
  


  
Twenty-seven years after that Summer, when Stan regains a number of repressed memories, he understands the pattern he once longed to unravel. It was a path. A path that he had been carving into himself for years, now laid open in front of him. All those highs were  _ nothing  _ compared to the one he would experience today. They were the foundation on which he built the puzzle of his life. Now it was time for his moment supreme, laying down the final piece to Stanley Uris. Finally putting his mind to rest.

It did not hurt to slice his wrists, not like it had done the first few times he attacked his thighs. Nor did it hurt to smear his own blood onto the wall. The motions felt soothing, as if he made them on a regular basis. Perhaps he had. And perhaps this had been the Clown’s plan all along. To guide him to his demise, cut by cut, slice by slice. One drop of blood at the time.

He thought of the Losers,  _ his _ Losers. By now, all of them would remember what had happened. By now, they would be on their way back to Derry, to fight the Clown once and for all. Stan would not be joining them there, not in this form. 

  
  


Unbeknown to them, he was there, in spirit. In the shower caps hidden deep under the Barrens. In the birds, flying over unsuspected heads. In the arcade, the synagogue, even in the Neibolt house; where Stan’s own twisted face attacked the man he considered to be his best friend.

And then in the cave, holding onto his last shreds of power to guide his Losers to their victory. Georgie was there too, holding his hand, smaller than it had ever felt before. The both of them tethering themselves to the life essence of friends no longer forgotten. Until it was done, until they were safe. All but one.

  
  


Stanley was there, younger than he had been in years, to greet Eddie into the life beyond.    
Together, they would face their next adventures, until one by one other Losers would fill the gaps. 

Free of scars. Free of pain. Free of burdens they never should have had to carry. 

  
  


Free of _IT_.


End file.
